The Dark Remains

by Mark Anthony

  This time it was Durge who pulled her arm. “No, my lady. Do not look within that temple.”

  Through great force of will, she managed to wrest her gaze away and let the knight pull her after the others.

  Landus led them quickly through the shadowy streets. The young acolyte’s face was solemn, and perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight, but even his large, crooked nose seemed far less comical than Aryn remembered. It seemed once again she had underestimated someone.

  By the time they reached the temple of Mandu, the mourning had already begun. The stark interior of the temple was lit by a pale, sourceless radiance, so that the white stone seemed almost translucent. A dozen priests and priestesses stood before the temple’s altar, beneath the serene, smiling statue of the Everdying God. Something rested on the stone slab.

  Except that wasn’t quite right. Whatever the object was, it hovered above the stone surface. At last Aryn realized that it was the form of a man, wrapped head to toe in a shroud of white. Only his face remained uncovered: gaunt and wrinkled, yet in death as peaceful as that of his god.

  “Oh, Orsith,” Melia whispered.

  The priests and priestesses parted as she rushed to the altar, as if they had been expecting this. Melia caressed the old man’s face. She bent to whisper to him, but whatever she said was lost as a song rose on the air. Aryn could not understand the strange words the priests and priestesses sang, but there was sorrow in it, and a vast, endless joy that was almost too much to bear.

  At last Melia turned from the form floating above the altar and returned to them.

  “If it is not too much trouble,” she said to Landus, “I would see where he spent his last moments.”

  The acolyte nodded. “Of course, Your Holiness. It is no trouble. This way.”

  He led them to a small antechamber that, unlike most of what Aryn had seen of the temple of Mandu, was anything but stark and empty. The walls were lined with wooden shelves and cabinets, stuffed nearly to bursting with tightly rolled vellum scrolls. In the middle of the chamber were a table and a stool, and on the table were baskets of pens and jars of ink, as well as a sheet of vellum. One of the ink bottles had spilled across it, obscuring most of what had been written.

  “This was … this is Orsith’s study,” Landus said, struggling for words. “He was always so diligent in setting down the records. Orsith loves … that is, he always loved histories so.”

  In the dim candlelight of the study, Landus appeared suddenly frail and thin, old beyond his years. But then, it was plain he had both loved and worshiped Orsith. Aryn hesitated, then moved to the young man and laid her hand on his arm.

  “I’m so sorry, Landus,” she said.

  He looked at her, his eyes containing surprise, then he nodded, a grateful smile touching his lips. “In the end, the circle goes full round for all of us, and Orsith lived a long, prosperous turn. While we all tried to deny it, his health had been failing this last year. It is a shock, but perhaps not quite a surprise.”

  Falken approached the table. “Was he in here when you found him?”

  Landus nodded. “Several of us heard Orsith cry out. I was just down the hallway, so I was the first to arrive. Yet by the time I reached him, he was already gone, slumped here at the table. I fear his heart gave way. But his cry was short; I do not believe that he felt much pain in his passing.”

  Melia folded her arms over the bodice of her kirtle. “I should have come to Tarras sooner. I could have spent more time before he passed on to the next circle. I wish I had known his heart was so weak.”

  “That knowledge would have done you no good, my lady.”

  All of them turned toward Durge. The knight had been kneeling in the corner and now stood.

  Melia stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “It was not Orsith’s heart that killed him,” the knight said.

  Falken scowled at him. “Durge, this is no time for jests.”

  The Embarran raised an eyebrow at this, and Falken winced, evidently realizing the foolishness of his words.

  Aryn moved forward. “You found something, didn’t you, Durge? What is it?”

  The knight held out a rough hand. On his palm, gleaming in the candlelight, was a spider fashioned of gold.

  48.

  Falken sat at the table, studying the stained piece of vellum. Melia stood stiffly, silently behind him, having refused the chair herself. She was as rigid as the statue of Mandu in the main hall of the temple. However, right then there was none of Mandu’s serenity in her eyes. Instead, they were hard and haunted.

  “Are you certain it was Sif who killed Orsith?” Landus said. The acolyte’s eyes were wide, and he was visibly trembling beneath his robe.

  “It was Durge who put it all together,” Lirith said. “All the evidence points to Sif.” She gestured to the gold spider resting on the table. “And this would seem to remove any doubts we might have had.”

  “I suppose it was some sort of poison,” Durge said. “You said you observed no wounds on Orsith’s body, Landus. Only poison would explain that.”

  Landus shook his head, as if dizzy. “I suppose. But why would Sif want to murder Orsith in the first place?”

  Falken looked up. “I think for the same reason he murdered those other priests and tried to kill Lirith. And not just to sow chaos in the Etherion. Sif is afraid of anyone getting close to the truth about what he’s doing.” The bard gestured to the piece of ink-stained vellum on the table, and they all gathered around. “I don’t think this was one of the temple records Orsith was writing, Landus. I think this was his personal journal.”

  Landus nodded. “It could be. Orsith did keep his own history.”

  Falken picked up the sheet of vellum. “It’s hard to read. Most of it was blotted out when the ink spilled over it. But a few fragments stand out. Right here he refers to the darkness beneath. Here, lower down, is the word death. And then here, at the bottom …” Falken pointed to the last smudged lines. “ … that the spiders have come again.”

  Melia stepped forward, her eyes bright as flames. “I think it’s time we paid Sif a visit.”

  Minutes later they stood on the steps of the temple of Sif. The temple of the arachnid god was not far from that of Mandu, and Landus had led them there himself. No one had thought to tell the young acolyte he couldn’t come with them; his visage was nearly as hard as Melia’s.

  While most of the temples of the Second Circle were hewn of white marble, the stone of Sif’s temple was a gray that shimmered in the moonlight. The doors of the structure were massive and inlaid with glossy onyx. They were also tightly shut.

  “Something tells me Sif’s priests won’t be inclined to answer our polite knock,” Falken said.

  “Then we’ll just have to let ourselves in,” Melia said crisply.

  The lady breezed past them, then raised her hands over her head. At first Aryn thought it was a trick of the moonlight, then she realized the truth: An azure nimbus surrounded Melia’s slender figure.

  “Open!” the lady commanded.

  Her hands flashed, and there was a clap of thunder. As if they had been struck by a gigantic fist, the doors of the temple flew off their hinges and fell inward with a boom.

  Even Falken stared as dust billowed out of the opening.

  Melia primly smoothed the white fabric of her kirtle. “This way,” she said, and stepped through the opening.

  The temple of Sif was vast and dim. Dozens of columns held up the shadowy ceiling, carved of more of the same smooth, gray stone. Tapestries of silver cloth hung down from above like the strands of a monstrous web. In the center of the temple, set into the floor with more onyx, was a circle from which eight radial arms spun outward.

  Not arms, Aryn. Legs. It’s meant to symbolize a spider—a great, black spider.

  There were priests in the temple, but it was hard to get a good look at them, for they were all in the process of fleeing. The priests ducked between columns; doors slammed,
locks turned. In moments the temple was empty except for the six visitors.

  Falken let out a low whistle. “Something tells me they don’t feel like chatting.”

  “Cowards,” Melia said, her lip curling in disgust.

  Landus gaped at Melia, his expression one of pure awe. Aryn knew exactly what he was feeling. It wasn’t every day one got to see a former goddess in action.

  Falken scratched his chin. “Now what?”

  “Watch,” Melia said.

  The lady stepped to the center of the spider symbol. She did not raise her voice, but nevertheless her words rang throughout the empty temple, and somehow her sharp tone was far more ominous than any display of wrath.

  “Show yourself, Sif,” she called. “I know you can hear me. A spider always knows what’s at the center of its web.”

  Silence.

  “Now, Sif, or I’ll tear your temple down stone by stone and leave only a stinking black pit where nothing, not even the rudest hovel, will stand!”

  Melia raised her arms above her.

  “No!” came a shrieking, blubbering voice, echoing from all directions. “You must not, Melindora!”

  At the far end of the temple, the air rippled and shimmered. Then, as if a gray veil had been cast aside, the air grew clear, revealing a throne of silvery stone. On the throne slouched a gigantic figure. Aryn drew in a sharp breath and knew she was gazing on a god.

  Sif was formed like a man. Mostly. For his arms were four in number, as were his legs, and all of these limbs seemed to be waving at once. He wore a shimmering gray tunic over his round, bloated body, and his head seemed far too small for the rest of him. Two tiny black eyes glittered in the circle of his face.

  “Well, I am here, Melindora,” Sif said in an oddly clicking voice. “Are you happy?”

  “Not really. I think I’m going to tear down your temple anyway for what you’ve done.”

  She raised her arms again. Blue lightning streaked forth. One of the columns cracked and tilted.

  “Stop!” Sif howled, covering his head with four hands as dust and pebbles rained down on him. “Stop this, Melindora. I do not deserve this!”

  “Don’t you?” Melia held out the gold spider they had found in Orsith’s room. “I think this means you do indeed deserve this. And more.”

  She reached her other hand toward a statue.

  “No, Melia—wait.”

  This time it was not Sif who spoke, but Falken. The bard laid his hand on Melia’s arm, gently pulling it down. She turned to glare at him.

  “What are you doing, Falken? Sif murdered Orsith as well as the others, and it’s time he paid.”

  “But you are wrong!” Sif wailed. “It was not me, by my web I do swear it. That spider is not mine, Melindora.”

  Melia stalked toward the god. “You lie!”

  “I do not! Well, at least not now. Ask him.” Sif pointed with one of his many hands to Falken. “He knows the truth—I can see it in his eyes. You all know as well as I that Ondo never let me have spiders of gold, that pompous fool. And wretched Geb hid away the gold he stole for me.”

  Melia opened her mouth, but suddenly she seemed at a loss for words. She lowered her arm and stumbled back. Falken held her steady.

  “So I was right,” Durge said, seemingly unfazed that this was a deity incarnate before him. Instead, it might have been an errant serving boy caught in the act of pilfering bread. “You were angry at Ondo and plotted with Geb to steal his gold.”

  “Yes, I admit it!” Sif squealed, his voice reverberating throughout the temple. “I despised Ondo for his pride. Ever did he flaunt his gold. Yet I should have known Geb would betray me, and for that I hate him as well.” Sif’s many arms tangled and untangled. “But I did not murder them. I murdered no one.”

  “What about the priests of Vathris in the Etherion? Durge saw your own priests sneaking about moments before the others were slain.”

  “You misunderstand, Melindora. My priests had watched the discourse in secret at my command. They wished only to leave the Etherion without being seen. I know not who slew the men of the bull—only that my priests had nothing to do with it.”

  Again Melia said, “You lie.” But this time it was a faint whisper.

  Aryn knew the gods were beyond mortal men, that they were capable of making things seem real when they were not. She was not certain it was really Sif who was before them now. Yet all the same she knew the arachnid god was not lying.

  Before she thought about what she was doing, Aryn stepped forward. She didn’t know how one was to properly address a god, so she settled for a curtsy. “Pardon me, Lord Sif. But if you did not murder the other gods, then who did?”

  “You think I don’t want to know the answer to that question, you insignificant nit?” He clenched four hands into fists. “I should crush you like a fly in my web.”

  Aryn stared, aghast, but before she could say more Durge stepped before her.

  “God or no, you will not address a lady in such a manner.”

  Sif’s beady eyes narrowed. “And who are you, speck?”

  Melia moved toward the throne. “He’s my friend. As was Orsith. And if you know anything, Sif, then you’re going to tell me. Now.”

  Sif drew himself up on his throne, his bulbous belly puffing outward. “You are not a goddess anymore, Melindora. I do not have to listen to you.”

  “True,” she said coolly. “But I think the Etherion will. I’ll tell them that you’re hiding information about the murders. I suspect the other temples will not be pleased to hear this news. In fact, I imagine they’ll likely cast your priests out of the Etherion. Forever.”

  Sif trembled on his throne, his limbs curling inward. His mouth worked but uttered no sound.

  “Think of it, Sif.” Melia’s words were sharp and precise as daggers. “An eternity with no followers to worship you, no one to send prayers or light candles in your name. An eternity with nothing but your own empty webs to keep you company.”

  Sif’s beady eyes bulged. “You would not dare!”

  Melia placed her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.

  Sif’s bulbous form shook as if made of jelly. His body was growing fuzzy around the edges, as if he could barely hold the image of himself together.

  “You are hateful as a wasp, Melindora Nightsilver,” the arachnid god spat. Then, in a more sullen voice, he added, “But I will tell you whatever you wish to know.”

  Unfortunately, it turned out Sif knew little. Melia and Falken questioned the god repeatedly, but the only thing he could confirm was that the golden spider did not belong to him or any of his followers, and that he did not know who might have dropped it. At last they gave up.

  “I’m tired of you, Sif,” Melia said. “We’re leaving.”

  She turned away from the throne, Falken beside her.

  “Wait, Melindora,” the god called out in a sickly sweet voice. “Since I cooperated with you, I am sure this means you will not tell the Etherion about my little deal with Geb, now will you? Melindora? Melindora!”

  Spittle sprayed from Sif’s lips, but Melia only held her chin high as she walked away from the throne.

  “Let us leave this place,” she said to the others. “I have never cared for spiders.”

  Moments later they found themselves outside, at the foot of the temple’s steps. Melia’s hard expression softened, and she leaned against Falken.

  “So it wasn’t Sif after all,” Lirith said. She glanced at Durge. “It looks as if you were right about everything. Except who the murderer was.”

  Durge shrugged. “I suppose it is a wonder I got as much right as I did, my lady.”

  Aryn sighed. She had thought the mystery solved, but they were no closer to an answer than they had been before. “But who does the golden spider belong to?”

  “I don’t know,” Falken said. “But I think maybe Orsith did. I think that’s what he was writing in his journal. And my hunch is that’s why—”

  A sc
ream pierced the night, high, bubbling—and something other than human.

  They turned around. The scream had come through the open doors. Durge and Falken reached the temple first, followed by Melia and Landus. Aryn came last with Lirith. They skidded to a halt, jaws agape at what they saw.

  Once again, priests ran back and forth inside the temple, but this time they were not fleeing from Melia’s wrath. Instead, they stumbled away from a gaping hole on the far side of the temple: a black void where Sif’s throne had been. A half dozen columns had toppled over, their supports removed. Heaps of rubble had fallen from above, and dust choked the air. There was no sign of the arachnid god.

  Ignoring the fleeing priests, they wove their way among the wreckage and approached the hole, although as they drew near Falken held up a hand, preventing them from getting too close. The hole was perfectly round, its edges as sharp as if cut with a knife. Inside, the pit was a void of pure darkness. It sucked at Aryn, dragging her forward. Lirith gripped her shoulders. Durge kicked a stone into the hole. They waited, but they did not hear it strike bottom.

  Falken tried to grab one of the running priests, but the man only cried out in fear and twisted away. The bard swore. “What’s going on here? And where is Sif? We need to ask him what just happened.”

  “You won’t find him.”

  It was Melia. Her voice was strangely soft and weary. She pressed a hand to her forehead, her visage ashen.

  “By the gods, what is it?” Falken said.

  Melia swayed on her feet. “He’s gone. Utterly and completely gone.”

  Aryn clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. Sif was dead. The murderer had been there, in that very temple, and they hadn’t even known it.